She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. ‘What a catalogue. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. “There, there, now. ” “You and your father?” Lucy asked. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. ‘How much does he know?’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned narrowed eyes on Gerald. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. This person was speedily followed by half a dozen others, some of whom carried flambeaux.
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